# Xavier's Garage - Late Evening
The Boss 429 sat on jack stands like a sleeping dragon that had finally been convinced mortality was optional. The midnight black paint job caught overhead lighting and transformed it into liquid starlight, each curve and angle suggesting violence barely restrained by aesthetic principles and possibly divine intervention.
Harry Potter was elbow-deep in the engine bay, emerald eyes narrowed in concentration as he traced the final rune sequence along fuel lines with precision that suggested either extensive magical training or obsessive-compulsive tendencies about symmetry. Probably both. Definitely both.
"Right," he muttered, voice carrying that particular British focus that made even mechanical work sound like preparing for war, "so this connects to the primary resonance matrix, which feeds into the secondary amplification circuit, which—Logan, is this supposed to glow?"
"What's glowing?" Logan asked from beneath the car, where he'd been installing the transmission with the kind of violent efficiency that suggested he was either very good at his job or taking out personal frustrations on inanimate objects. Possibly both.
"The fuel line," Harry replied. "It's glowing. Sort of. Faintly. Like someone put Christmas lights inside a vein and hoped nobody would notice."
Sirius emerged from behind the parts crate holding a flawless piece of quartz the size of a fist that seemed to glow with internal light despite the harsh fluorescents. His aristocratic features carried that particular expression of someone who'd just finished explaining quantum mechanics to a toddler and was moderately confident it had worked.
"That's the runic resonance," he explained, moving to examine Harry's work with professional interest. "The schema's active but not engaged—like a circuit board with power but no signal. Once we anchor the crystal in the fuel tank, bind it to the engine block through the sympathetic connection ritual, and activate the primary enchantment sequence, she'll run on ambient magical energy supplemented by premium gasoline."
He traced one finger along the glowing lines, satisfaction radiating like heat from a forge. "Best of both worlds. Conventional reliability, supernatural performance enhancement, and enough efficiency to make environmental activists reconsider their opinions about classic muscle cars."
"Or make them more upset," Harry pointed out. "Because we're basically creating a magic-powered land missile that violates approximately seventeen laws of thermodynamics."
"Details," Sirius said with a dismissive wave. "Thermodynamics are more guidelines than rules. Ask any quantum physicist after sufficient alcohol."
Logan finally emerged from beneath the Mustang, grease-stained and satisfied, wiping his hands on a rag that had given up on cleanliness approximately three oil changes ago. "Transmission's in. Sealed. Ready for final integration once you two finish playing with your magic rocks and glowing car veins."
"They're not magic rocks," Sirius protested with wounded dignity. "They're precisely calibrated mystical interface mediums that required three weeks of preparation, two trips to Arkansas, and one very awkward conversation with a crystal merchant who thought I was trying to start a cult."
"Were you?" Harry asked innocently.
"Not *intentionally*," Sirius replied. "But I can see how the robes, extensive technical questions about resonance frequencies, and repeated references to 'achieving perfect sympathetic harmony' might have sent mixed signals."
"Ya think?" Logan muttered, lighting the cigar he'd been chewing for the past hour with obvious satisfaction. Smoke curled around his weathered features like punctuation to his entire personality. "You're lucky they didn't call the cops."
"I'm *charming*," Sirius defended. "Very disarming. Excellent social skills. The merchant was actually quite helpful once I explained I was building a magically enhanced muscle car for my godson's birthday rather than summoning ancient entities through crystalline meditation."
"That's a low bar," Harry observed, carefully etching the final rune into the fuel line with a tool that was part wand, part precision instrument, and entirely too expensive to be used in a Queens garage. "Not summoning ancient entities. That's like saying 'I'm not currently committing arson' and expecting applause."
"I'll take what I can get," Sirius said cheerfully. "Now, let's get this beauty sealed up. Tomorrow's your birthday, pup. Sixteen. Legal driving age. Time to take your cosmic-enhanced American muscle car out for a spin and discover whether New York traffic laws apply to vehicles that run on magic and teenage overconfidence."
"They don't," Logan said with absolute certainty. "But you're gonna pretend they do until you think nobody's watching. Then you're gonna see what she can *really* do and probably give every cop in the five boroughs a collective aneurysm."
"I would *never*," Harry protested, though his grin suggested otherwise. "I'm British. We respect traffic laws. Very strictly. It's practically a national religion."
"You drove a flying car into a tree," Sirius pointed out.
"I was *twelve*," Harry defended. "And technically Ron was driving. I was just... morally supportive. Very encouraging. Possibly made it worse through excessive enthusiasm."
"You absolutely made it worse," Sirius agreed fondly. "Your father would've done the same thing. Probably would've added flames for dramatic effect."
They settled into comfortable rhythm—Sirius guiding Harry through the final enchantment sequences, Logan handling the heavy lifting with casual strength that made physics look optional, all three of them working with the practiced coordination of people who'd learned to trust each other through shared chaos and mutual respect for mechanical resurrection.
"So," Harry said conversationally, carefully positioning the quartz crystal in its custom housing within the fuel tank, "SHIELD handlers. Tomorrow. How are you feeling about that?"
Sirius's expression flickered—excitement mixed with apprehension mixed with that particular Black family tendency toward making everything *dramatically complicated*.
"Nervous," he admitted, which was rare. Sirius Black didn't do vulnerable often. When he did, it meant something. "Not about the work—I'm *excellent* at violence and questionable decisions. But about... fitting in. Being useful. Not being the traumatized ex-convict who transforms into a dog and has strong opinions about government overreach."
"You're gonna be fine," Logan said with gravel-voiced certainty, not looking up from where he was torquing bolts with the kind of force that made metal nervous. "SHIELD's full of people with *colorful* pasts. Assassins. Spies. Reformed villains. That one guy who's apparently a god with severe family dysfunction. You'll fit right in."
"Plus," Harry added, "you're charming, competent, and have actual superpowers that make surveillance substantially easier. They'd be *stupid* not to love you. And SHIELD, whatever else they are, aren't stupid."
"Paranoid," Logan corrected. "Bureaucratic. Occasionally morally questionable. But not stupid."
"Exactly my point," Harry said, gently lowering the crystal into its housing with movements that suggested he was handling either religious artifacts or live explosives. "You're going to meet your handler—this Phil Coulson person—and he's either going to be boring middle management or surprisingly competent and you'll end up respecting him despite yourself."
"I'm hoping for competent," Sirius said. "I can work with competent. Boring middle management makes me want to set things on fire just to see if they'll react or file a report about 'concerning behavioral patterns requiring additional oversight.'"
"Please don't set your handler on fire," Harry said. "I just lectured Nick Fury about child labor laws and threatened orbital bombardment. Let's give SHIELD at least a week before we start the property damage and diplomatic incidents."
"*Fine*," Sirius sighed dramatically. "I'll behave. Mostly. For a week. Then all bets are off and I'm making it everybody's problem through strategic deployment of dog transformations and British sass."
The crystal settled into place with a soft *click* that somehow carried more weight than physics would strictly recommend—like reality itself was acknowledging that they'd just done something that operated beyond normal parameters and was choosing not to file a complaint because the paperwork would be *catastrophic*.
"There," Harry breathed, stepping back to admire their work. "Crystal's in. Housing sealed. Runic schema complete. She's ready for activation."
Sirius moved forward with ceremonial reverence, pulling out his wand with the fluid grace of someone who'd been doing magic longer than most people had been alive. The rosewood gleamed under harsh lighting, and for a moment the workshop felt less like a garage and more like a temple dedicated to the intersection of technology and divinity.
"*Connecto perpetuus. Resonantia sympathetica. Potentia aeterna,*" he intoned, wand tracing patterns in the air that left glowing trails—not light exactly, but the *memory* of light, afterimages burned into reality's retinas.
The crystal *sang*.
Not sound. Not exactly. But Harry felt it in his bones, in his teeth, in the cosmic enhancement that made him more than human. A harmonic that existed at the frequency where magic and physics had a conversation and decided they could work together if nobody asked too many questions about the theoretical implications.
The fuel lines began to glow—soft amber that pulsed like a heartbeat, flowing from the crystal through carefully etched runes, spreading through the engine block like veins filling with liquid gold and possibilities.
"Beautiful," Logan murmured, and even he sounded awed despite his general policy of being unimpressed by everything that wasn't immediate violence or really good whiskey. "Absolutely *beautiful*."
The Boss 429 hummed with potential energy, dormant power waiting to be unleashed by someone brave enough or stupid enough to turn the key and discover what happened when American muscle met British magical engineering.
Harry stared at his birthday present—midnight black, chrome gleaming, power radiating like a threat and a promise simultaneously—and felt something shift in his chest. Gratitude. Wonder. The particular joy that came from receiving a gift that someone had *made* rather than bought, poured hours and expertise and love into creating something extraordinary.
"Sirius," he said quietly, and his voice cracked just slightly because sixteen-year-olds with cosmic enhancement were still sixteen-year-olds with *feelings*. "Thank you. Truly. This is—" He paused, searching for words that could encompass everything. "This is the best gift anyone's ever given me."
Sirius's expression softened into something vulnerable, paternal, carrying echoes of James Potter's smile and Lily's fierce protectiveness.
"You're welcome, pup," he said warmly, moving to pull Harry into a hug that was equal parts affection and "I'm very proud and also slightly worried about what you're going to do with this thing." "Your dad would've *loved* this. Would've probably added more enchantments. Definitely would've made it fly. Your mum would've been horrified and then secretly impressed and then horrified again when we inevitably crashed it into something expensive."
"I won't crash," Harry promised, voice muffled against Sirius's shoulder.
"You absolutely will," Sirius replied fondly. "But you'll survive. You always do. It's very annoying and also deeply reassuring."
Logan cleared his throat with the deliberate attention-grabbing of someone who'd been watching emotional family moments and decided they'd gone on long enough without his input.
"Hate to interrupt the touching scene," he said, though his tone suggested he absolutely did not hate it and was possibly enjoying their discomfort, "but we got company."
He jerked his head toward the workshop's open bay door, where headlights were painting the driveway in sharp white illumination.
Not just any headlights. Expensive headlights. The kind that cost more than most people's annual salary and came attached to vehicles that required specific insurance and possibly a declaration of net worth.
A sports car—low, sleek, white as fresh snow and probably cost more than an average man's yearly wages—rolled to a stop with mechanical precision that suggested either excellent engineering or the car itself had opinions about appropriate parking etiquette.
The engine died with a satisfied purr, and the driver's door opened with the kind of smooth hydraulics that made normal car doors feel inadequate about their life choices.
The girl who emerged looked like she'd been personally assembled by a committee of fashion designers who'd been given unlimited budget and instructions to create "teenage perfection that makes mortals question their life choices."
Blonde hair fell in perfect waves past her shoulders—not natural blonde, but that specific shade of expensive blonde that required salon visits costing more than most people's rent and maintenance schedules that would make professional athletes weep. Her skin carried that flawless porcelain quality that suggested either excellent genetics, better skincare, or possibly divine intervention.
But it was her *outfit* that really made a statement.
All white. *Aggressively* white. Designer white. The kind of white that made you nervous just looking at it because it seemed structurally impossible to maintain in a world containing dirt, coffee, and the general entropy that made white clothing a hostage situation waiting to happen.
White jeans that fit like they'd been personally tailored by someone who understood that fabric could be both practical and devastating. White blouse that probably cost more than the Mustang's entire parts budget. White leather jacket that screamed "I'm rich, fashionable, and completely confident you won't get motor oil on this because I'm *terrifying*."
She wore it all with the casual confidence of someone who'd never experienced financial anxiety, worried about dry cleaning bills, or questioned whether white was a practical color choice for literally anything.
Her heels—also white, naturally, probably designer, definitely expensive enough to fund a small nation's education budget—clicked against gravel with the precision of someone who'd learned to walk in stilettos before she'd learned to walk in reasonable footwear.
Blue eyes swept the garage with calculating attention, cataloging details with the focus of someone who'd been trained to assess situations before speaking, threats before engaging, and exactly how much danger she was in at any given moment.
Those eyes landed on the three of them—Harry covered in engine grease and runic residue, Sirius looking aristocratic despite his oil-stained coveralls, Logan radiating "I'm technically being polite but could absolutely kill you if motivated" energy—and something flickered across her perfect features.
Recognition. Calculation. And underneath it all, something that might've been loneliness wrapped in designer armor.
She sauntered toward them—not walked, *sauntered*, like gravity had personal interest in making her look good and was putting in overtime—and when she spoke, her voice carried that particular boarding school precision that suggested years of expensive education and aggressive elocution training.
"Good evening," she said, and even her *greeting* sounded like it cost money. "I'm looking for Professor Xavier. I have an appointment regarding enrollment. I'm Emma Frost."
She paused, lips curving into a smile that could've sold luxury watches or possibly started small wars.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
The silence that followed carried weight—the kind that happens when people who can read situations realize they're standing at the intersection of several Very Interesting Things.
Harry straightened from the Mustang, wiping grease-stained hands on a rag that was already beyond redemption, emerald eyes tracking her with the focused attention of someone whose cosmic enhancement came with built-in threat assessment and *opinions* about ulterior motives.
Logan's posture shifted fractionally—not hostile, just *aware*. The way predators become aware when something interesting enters their territory and might be prey, might be competition, might be something else entirely requiring evaluation.
Sirius's expression settled into that aristocratic courtesy that masked absolutely *everything* happening behind grey eyes that had learned to read people through twelve years of magical supermax and extensive experience with individuals whose surfaces didn't match their depths.
"Emma Frost," Harry repeated, and his voice carried that particular British precision that made names sound like tactical assessments. "Lovely to meet you. I'm Harry Potter. This is my godfather Sirius Black, and our friend Logan Howlett. We're currently finishing up—" He gestured at the Mustang. "—my birthday present. Magically enhanced American muscle car. Very exciting. Probably violates several laws of physics and possibly God's personal opinions about appropriate modifications to internal combustion engines."
Emma's attention shifted to the Boss 429, and something genuine flickered across her perfect features—appreciation that transcended performance and approached actual interest.
"That's *gorgeous*," she said, and her voice lost that calculated edge for just a moment. "1967?"
"1969," Sirius corrected with obvious pride. "Boss 429. Original Big Block engine, Drag Pack suspension, thirty-seven years of garage imprisonment, and approximately three weeks of magical resurrection that would make Carroll Shelby either weep with joy or file formal complaints with whatever deity oversees automotive excellence."
"And she runs on magic," Harry added helpfully. "Supplemented by premium gasoline. We just finished installing the runic schema. Very complicated. Possibly illegal. Definitely unprecedented."
Emma moved closer, heels clicking with mechanical precision, examining the car with focus that suggested either genuine appreciation or very convincing performance art. Her hand hovered near the gleaming black paint but didn't quite touch—aware, perhaps, that touching other people's extremely expensive automotive projects without permission was how you made enemies who held grudges.
"The craftsmanship is extraordinary," she said, and it sounded sincere. "Most people who modify classics destroy them through aggressive bad taste and insufficient understanding of what made them beautiful in the first place. This is—" She paused, searching for words. "—*respectful*. Enhanced but not ruined. Better but still fundamentally itself."
"Thank you," Sirius said, and his aristocratic features warmed fractionally at the recognition. "That was precisely the goal. Improve without disrespecting. Enhance without destroying the soul. Very philosophical approach to automotive restoration."
Harry was watching her with increasing interest, cosmic senses painting pictures that didn't quite match her perfect surface. Her thoughts were *loud*—not broadcasting exactly, but not shielded either. Nervous excitement, calculated performance, and underneath it all a bone-deep loneliness that made his chest ache with recognition.
"You're a telepath," he said quietly, and it wasn't a question.
Emma's perfect composure fractured for just a heartbeat—shock bleeding through before she could reconstruct the mask. Her blue eyes snapped to his, calculations recalibrating in real-time.
"How did you—"
"I'm cosmically enhanced," Harry explained with casual honesty that would've made SHIELD's intelligence division weep. "Death and Phoenix gave me certain... sensitivities. I can feel what people are. Not read minds—that's invasive and rude—but sense the shape of them. You're telepathic. Quite powerful, if I'm reading the resonance correctly. And you're *scared*."
The last word hung in the air like smoke after lightning.
Emma stared at him for a long moment, perfect facade cracking further as genuine emotion bled through expensive armor.
"I'm not—" she started, then stopped. Tried again. "I'm not *scared*. I'm just—"
"Terrified," Harry corrected gently. "Of your abilities. Of what people will do if they know what you can do. Of being used, exploited, turned into a weapon or tool or convenient asset for people who see your mind-reading as opportunity rather than recognizing *you* as a person deserving basic human dignity and respect."
His voice softened, cosmic fire banking into something warm rather than threatening.
"It's okay to be scared, Emma. Everyone here has been scared. Logan's got trauma from being turned into a living weapon by people who thought his healing factor meant he didn't deserve basic humanity. Sirius spent twelve years in magical supermax for a crime he didn't commit. I've died multiple times fighting genocidal maniacs who thought murder was excellent problem-solving."
He spread his hands, gestures encompassing the garage, the Mustang, the three of them covered in grease and satisfied exhaustion.
"Xavier's Institute—where I'm *guessing* you're hoping to enroll based on the 'appointment regarding enrollment' thing—is full of people who've been scared. Who've been hurt. Who've learned the hard way that being different means being targeted by people who fear what they can't understand or control."
His smile was devastating and kind simultaneously.
"But you're safe there. Actually, genuinely safe. Not 'we'll protect you until you're inconvenient' safe. Not 'you're safe as long as you're useful' safe. But *safe*. Because Professor Xavier believes people aren't weapons. People are *people*. Even when those people can read minds, control weather, or set the sky on fire for dramatic effect during rescue operations."
Emma was staring at him like he'd just performed a magic trick that violated several fundamental principles of human interaction and possibly physics.
"You just—" She paused, recalculating everything. "You just told me all that. About your trauma. Your godfather's trauma. Your friend's trauma. Why?"
"Because you're scared," Harry said simply. "And you needed to know you're not alone. That being different, being powerful, being *terrified* of your own capabilities doesn't make you broken or dangerous or wrong. It makes you human."
He moved closer, close enough that she could see the grease stains on his shirt, the rune-traced burns on his forearms from magical work, the cosmic fire that occasionally flickered behind emerald eyes.
"I'm Harry Potter. Sixteen tomorrow. Cosmically enhanced disaster with concerning tendency to make everything dramatically complicated. I set things on fire—sometimes accidentally, usually deliberately—and I make questionable decisions that somehow work out spectacularly. I'm dating a telepath with the Phoenix Force who could disassemble me at the molecular level if I disappointed her, which is both terrifying and weirdly motivating."
His grin widened, absolutely devastating.
"Welcome to Xavier's Institute, Emma Frost. Where the curriculum includes algebra, ethics, combat training, and learning that being powerful doesn't mean being alone unless you choose to be. Professor's in the mansion—main entrance, can't miss it, looks like someone took Oxford and gave it opinions about American architecture."
Emma stared at him for another long moment.
Then, slowly, something in her perfect facade *cracked*. Not broke—just... softened. Like she'd been holding herself rigid for so long she'd forgotten flexibility was an option.
"Thank you," she said quietly, and her voice carried genuine emotion rather than calculated performance. "That's—no one's ever just *told* me it was okay to be scared. Usually they tell me to be strong, be confident, be *useful*. Never just... be *human*."
"Well," Harry said warmly, "now you know. And you're about to meet a whole community of people who'll tell you the same thing. Repeatedly. Aggressively. With homework assignments about self-acceptance and probably mandatory therapy sessions about processing trauma through healthy emotional expression rather than burying it beneath designer fashion and telepathic shields."
"I don't bury trauma beneath fashion," Emma protested, but she was smiling now—small, tentative, *real*.
"You're wearing all white," Logan pointed out. "To a *garage*. Where we've been working on a car. With oil. And grease. And probably some magic residue that'll stain fabric in ways that make dry cleaners cry. That's not practical fashion. That's armor disguised as couture."
Emma glanced down at her immaculate outfit, and something like recognition flickered across her features.
"It's Burberry," she said defensively.
"It's *armor*," Logan repeated. "Very expensive armor. Very fashionable armor. But armor nonetheless. Psychological protection disguised as wealth display and social positioning."
"You should meet Jean," Harry added enthusiastically. "My girlfriend. Telepath. Phoenix Force host. Occasionally glows when emotionally intense situations occur. She'll *love* having another telepath to discuss mind-reading ethics with. Also she's gorgeous, terrifying, and has *opinions* about people who use their abilities to exploit others rather than help them."
"She sounds intimidating," Emma said.
"She's *magnificent*," Harry corrected. "Intimidating, yes. But in the best possible way. The 'I will absolutely destroy you if you hurt people I care about but I'll also help you process your trauma through supportive emotional labor' way."
Sirius cleared his throat with aristocratic precision, drawing attention back to practical matters like enrollment appointments and the fact that Emma Frost was currently standing in a Queens garage rather than wherever Xavier was presumably waiting for her arrival.
"The mansion's about twenty minutes north," he said helpfully. "GPS-friendly. Well-marked. Hard to miss unless you're spectacularly bad at navigation. Xavier's expecting you, presumably, given the whole 'appointment' thing. He's telepathic—much more powerful than either you or Jean, just as a professional courtesy warning—but he's *ethical* about it. Won't read your mind without permission unless he thinks you're about to hurt someone. Very respectful. Good boundaries. Excellent educator."
"And if you need recommendation," Harry added, "I literally just lectured Nick Fury—director of SHIELD, eyepatch, leather coat, probably has files on everyone—about child labor laws and threatened orbital bombardment if they exploit Sirius. Xavier was there. Witnessed the whole thing. Looked vaguely proud and also concerned I'm going to cause international incidents."
Emma laughed—genuine, surprised, the kind of sound that suggested she hadn't expected to *enjoy* this conversation and was mildly annoyed that she was.
"You threatened a federal director with orbital bombardment."
"I threatened *orbital bombardment* specifically," Harry clarified. "Very precise threat. Well-articulated. Explained my reasoning. Used complete sentences. Fury actually respected it, I think. Or at least decided I was crazy enough to possibly follow through and adjusted his risk assessment accordingly."
"You're absolutely insane," Emma said, but she was smiling wider now.
"Frequently, yes," Harry agreed cheerfully. "But functionally so. High-functioning insanity. Very productive. Gets things done. Occasionally sets things on fire but usually for good reasons that make sense when explained properly with visual aids."
Logan exhaled smoke through his unlit cigar with obvious satisfaction. "Kid grows on you. Like fungus. Persistent, occasionally useful, definitely weird."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Harry said, placing a hand over his heart with theatrical emotion.
"Don't let it go to your head," Logan replied. "You're still a pain in my ass. Just a *useful* pain in my ass. There's a legal distinction."
Emma glanced between them—Harry covered in grease and cosmic fire, Sirius radiating aristocratic chaos, Logan being aggressively Canadian and competent—and something in her expression settled. Decision made. Mask lowered. Maybe not all the way, but *enough*.
"Thank you," she said again, and this time it carried weight. "For being honest. For not immediately trying to figure out how to use me or what I could do for you. For just—" She paused. "For just being decent. It's rarer than it should be."
"Decency's free," Harry said with warm certainty. "Costs nothing. Takes minimal effort. And it makes literally everything better. Should be standard issue for humanity but apparently requires aggressive promotion and possibly legislation."
He gestured toward her pristine white sports car with obvious appreciation that transcended practical concerns about maintaining impossible standards of cleanliness.
"Drive safe. Don't speed excessively—cops get *very* upset about sports cars doing exciting things on public roads, very inconsiderate of them. Tell Xavier that Harry Potter says hello and also I'm definitely not setting anything on fire during my birthday party tomorrow despite Logan's pessimistic predictions."
"I'm being *realistic*," Logan corrected. "Not pessimistic. There's a difference. You set things on fire. It's what you do. It's like breathing but more dramatic and requiring fire extinguisher budgets."
"It's *one* of my things," Harry defended. "I do other things! I have *hobbies*!"
"Setting different kinds of fires," Logan said flatly.
"Also cars," Harry added, gesturing at the Mustang. "And relationship maintenance. And therapy. And threatening federal directors. Very diverse skillset."
Emma was laughing again—properly now, not the careful controlled sound of someone performing emotion but genuine amusement that suggested she was actually enjoying herself despite arriving in a garage wearing Burberry to meet people covered in motor oil.
"I'll tell Professor Xavier you said hello," she promised. "And that you're definitely not setting anything on fire."
"He won't believe you," Harry said cheerfully. "But I appreciate the effort. Very kind. Excellent diplomatic instincts."
She moved back toward her car—still cautious, still calculating, but some of the rigid tension had eased from her perfect posture. The armor was still there, but maybe sitting slightly less heavily.
At the driver's door, she paused, glancing back.
"Harry?"
"Mm?"
"Happy early birthday. The car is beautiful. And—" She hesitated, vulnerability flashing across features that had been carefully trained never to show weakness. "Thank you. For seeing me. Not just the telepath. Not just the rich girl. But *me*."
Harry's expression softened into something gentle, cosmic fire banking into warmth rather than threat.
"Everyone deserves to be seen, Emma. Even—*especially*—people who've learned to hide because visibility meant danger. You're safe here. Actually, genuinely safe. Not 'safe until you're inconvenient' but *safe*. I promise."
She nodded, not quite trusting her voice, and slid into her sports car with practiced grace that suggested she'd spent years learning how to make even mundane movements look elegant.
The engine purred to life—expensive, satisfied, probably cost more to maintain than most people's mortgages—and she pulled away with careful precision, white sports car disappearing into traffic like a ghost made of designer clothing and carefully contained trauma.
The three of them watched her go in thoughtful silence.
Finally, Logan broke it.
"That girl's got more shields than a medieval tournament and more trauma than a horror movie protagonist. She's gonna fit right in here."
"Yep," Harry agreed, turning back to the Mustang with satisfaction. "Another lost soul saved by Xavier's aggressive compassion and excellent educational philosophy. Also she drives a gorgeous car. Very impressive. Made me reconsider my opinions about white paint being impractical for literally everything."
"It's still impractical," Sirius pointed out. "She's going to get one dirt smudge and have an existential crisis about maintaining impossible standards of perfection in a world full of entropy and New York traffic."
"She'll learn," Harry said with warm certainty. "They all learn. That's what Xavier does—teaches people that being perfect isn't the same as being *whole*. That having power doesn't mean having all the answers. That it's okay to be scared, traumatized, complicated, and still deserve basic human dignity and possibly ice cream when things get hard."
He grabbed a shop rag and began wiping down the Mustang's gleaming hood with reverent attention.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, voice carrying satisfaction and anticipation in equal measure. "Tomorrow I'm sixteen. Legal driving age. Old enough to take this beautiful disaster out on the road and discover what happens when British magical engineering meets American muscle meets New York traffic laws."
"You're gonna get arrested," Logan predicted.
"Probably," Harry agreed cheerfully. "But it'll be *worth it*."
Sirius clapped him on the shoulder, paternal pride radiating like heat from a forge.
"That's my boy. Making questionable decisions with excellent style and zero regrets. Your parents would be so proud."
"They really would," Harry said, and his voice only cracked a little because sixteen-year-olds with cosmic enhancement were still sixteen-year-olds who missed their parents and carried that grief like a weight they'd learned to bear but never quite put down.
Logan cleared his throat gruffly—the universal signal for "feelings are happening and I'm uncomfortable but also secretly invested in your emotional wellbeing."
"Right," he said, stubbing out his cigar with finality. "Tomorrow's your birthday. Let's get this beast locked up, sealed down, and ready for the kid to drive it straight into a tree because he's sixteen and all sixteen-year-olds are functionally brain-damaged when given access to vehicles with more horsepower than God."
"I'm not going to crash," Harry protested.
"You're *absolutely* going to crash," Sirius and Logan said simultaneously.
"Not on purpose!" Harry defended.
"That's not reassuring," Logan said. "That's *deeply* concerning."
"I have cosmic enhancement!" Harry argued. "Enhanced reflexes! Superior hand-eye coordination! The combined benefits of Death and Phoenix making me basically unkillable and really good at not dying!"
"And you're sixteen," Logan countered flatly. "With a fifteen-hundred-horsepower muscle car. Math says you're crashing. Physics agrees. I'm taking bets on whether you make it out of the parking lot before something explodes."
"Nothing's going to explode," Harry said with wounded dignity.
"Kid," Logan said, and his voice carried the weight of someone who'd seen many things explode and most of them had involved teenagers with more power than sense. "You set the *sky* on fire last week. You've got a documented history of making everything *dramatically complicated*. This car runs on *magic* and teenage overconfidence. Something's exploding. It's just a question of when and how much property damage we can blame on mechanical failure rather than operator error."
"I hate that you're probably right," Harry muttered.
"I'm *always* right," Logan replied. "It's very annoying. Also useful for avoiding catastrophic mistakes before they happen. But mostly annoying."
They worked in comfortable silence as the evening deepened into night, three men unified by affection, mechanical resurrection, and absolute certainty that tomorrow was going to be *spectacular*.
One way or another.
Probably involving fire.
Definitely involving paperwork.
Just another Tuesday at Xavier's Institute.
Where cosmic enhancement met classic cars, telepaths wore Burberry to garages, and someone was absolutely going to crash something expensive before the weekend was over.
Harry couldn't wait.
---
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